Just One
by 12-Jammie-Dodgers-and-a-Fez
Summary: Just one cigarette, Sherlock; I think you've earned it. What happens when one turns into two? What happens when that's not enough? Will almost certainly contain John/Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Beginning partway through A Scandal in Belgravia, this will likely contain spoilers for the whole of series two by the time it is completed. Drug use will be mentioned heavily and there is a high likely hood that there will be some romantic Johnlock in later chapters. If you don't want any of these things, feel free not to read on. If these are the things you're looking for, then get comfy and start reading. I hope you enjoy.**

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><p>Mycroft had said one. He had known the ramifications of his offer. Known what it would mean if his beloved brother accepted. And now he watched him, his body more relaxed than he'd seen in a long time. The younger of the two took great solace in this one little white stick…and the one he'd pickpocketed from Mycroft's jacket; just because he could, he told himself. That weight in his pocket, the gram his pocket had been missing for so long, it was back. <em>1.2 grams, Sherlock. It may not be as stimulating as the perfect gram, but that heady odour's a start. <em>He was back, that wonderful genius was back.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft." Though the words had been addressed to his brother, each one was for his own benefit. Oh what a merry Christmas it would be.

Two taps. Ash forlorn on the ground. Low tar. Low nicotine. Silk Cut White. The ash said it all. If Mycroft had said anything further, it had fallen on deaf ears; Sherlock was much too busy to hear. Within three seconds, the older of the two would be speaking to John Watson expressing his concern. This concern would prove to be completely necessary.

Twenty minutes later, six miles away, a well-dressed man drew in the last breath of his second cigarette of the year, the butt plummeting downwards to land between his work shoes and a pair of previously white trainers. The respective owners of these shoes exchanged words, money and a small plastic bag before departing, the cigarette end the only sign of the transaction.

A cab ride later, the afore mentioned leather shoes hit the kerb of a dampened street not three foot from the place the man in control of them called home. Twenty-three steps later the now snow trodden shoes found their work done; they had returned their master to his landlady and to the closest thing Sherlock Holmes had to a friend.

"Hi." The concern was obvious in Watson's voice, as apparent as that in Mycroft's but the words again failed to stimulate a response, muffled; the other senses requiring his full attention, "You okay?"

In any other situation, the detective would have been the first to acknowledge this atrocious use of the English language but he was still busy, the nicotine in his bloodstream pulling his gaze to the many differences that had appeared in his absence. Couch pillow two centimetres to the left. one, two, three, four books protruding up to three millimetres from the usual book line. The musty stench of disturbed dust pooling in each of his nasal cavities – the left more than the right, most likely coming from the unopened pile of bills situated less than a foot from his flexing fingers.

"I hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time." Were the only words released, precious nicotine escaping with every syllable.

_One-eighty turn. Eight steps, brisk pace. Solid wood. Cold brass. Fingers grip. Right hand turn. Left shoulder lean. Body weight shifted. Door open._

Door firmly locked behind him, only a small plastic seal separated him from his prize. Though his hands may have been shaky, he held it tight, never let it go leaving his other hand free to fumble over the thin metal of an old needle, the only thing required for this task. It had taken a full five minutes to break into it, free hand little better than that of a newborn. Three minutes later it was gone.

It seemed pathetic, squirreling away his 'nest egg', not dissimilar to the habits of an old woman – at least it wasn't in a mattress. But he wouldn't touch it now. Wouldn't touch it now. Would leave it. Leave it until he needed it. Until he couldn't cope. A thumb stroked over the wound the needle now on his bedside table. His 'special kit', as he had once labelled it, now quite safe in the lining of his coat alongside a small – and rather full – little plastic bag. His job finished Mr Holmes picked up the needle, placing it back in Mrs Hudson's sewing kit for when she next felt like darning his socks. Time for a rest: he'd have to keep up appearances in front of his landlady, his brother and his partner. Less than an hour later, John Watson stepped into the bedroom of the world's only consulting detective. He was asleep. He had been told to 'stay with him' and he would fulfil that task. A book in hand, the sweater clad man settled into the corner armchair. This would not be a night of sleep for him. This would be a night of watch.

The snow would be gone by morning. It's equally white counter parts - one acquired in a morgue, later discarded in an alley for the rather more interesting powder - would not.

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><p><strong>The next chapter should be up before the next episode, hopefully in the next couple days. <strong>I haven't been the best at updating earlier stories but I'm sure I'll be better with this one. Any reviews are welcome and constructive criticism would be loved.<strong>**

**Charlotte**

**x**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Sorry it took so long for an update, I'm still not happy with this chapter but I need to stop focusing on it and move on to the next one. Thanks for the reviews and I hope you enjoy this update too.**

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><p>New York is known worldwide as the city that never sleeps. John Watson had often mused that London was the British equivalent of 'The Big Apple' in this sense. The steady breathing and flutter of eyelids in REM sleep in 221b's first floor bedroom suggested otherwise. The alarm clock ticked melodically from its place somewhere in the corner of the room. It had likely ended there in one of two ways: either it had been dislodged when John Watson had carried through his drugged friend, tripping over the table in a vain attempt to keep the taller man upright – however, the more likely option probably had something to do with Sherlock 'confiscating' his roommate's gun and the bullet hole that had since taken the clock's place.<p>

Watson's dreams had taken a turn for the worse in the past weeks, becoming surreal intangible events more likely seen in a Dali work. Needles. Countless needles. Piercing through clouds of white powder. Plunging into marred flesh. An arm. A pungent aroma invaded his nostrils, taking deep into his lungs with each breath. The arm vanished, a putrefying pig left in its wake. Drifting in and out of consciousness dreams intermingled with reality until warm air grazed against his lips, pulling John from his slumber.

The smell continued into the waking world, seemingly emanating from the kitchen, crinkling Dr Watson's nostrils as it filled each in turn and was then expelled forcefully with a snort. It returned almost instantaneously, refusing to halt its assault. _Another of Sherlock's experiments, either that or Mrs Hudson's cooking has gone downhill. _The smell drew closer with every puff of air fluttering against his face, finally pulling open his sleep filled eyes. The first and only thing his eyes focused on was the delicate green of his roommate's irises. _Hmm, green today._ This thought flew from his mind as the realisation of the minute distance between himself and the owner of the eyes before him hit him.

"Sherlock!" As the exclamation left his lips, it occurred to the sweatered man that he shouldn't be so alarmed at the closeness of his roommate's face, he had experienced it often but normally when they stood in the company of others and it never seemed quite this…intimate.

The younger Holmes brother seemed not to understand personal space. At least not with John. Each eye explored John's own, searching for something, "Morning."

"Why are you…four inches from…from my face?" He found that now, over his initial shock, a lower voice came from his throat – practically a whisper and try as he might it wasn't going to come out any louder.

"It's two and a half John and if you use that measurement system as a reference for anything else then I'm sure your past girlfriends have all been rather disappointed." With the close proximity, Sherlock's voice appeared unchanged – still as deep, still as superior. How was it that the world's only consulting detective repeatedly failed to notice the feelings experienced by others? "Did you know you've got sleep apnoea?"

With that he moved back, just enough that his flatmate could move without touching him the space between them dangerously tantalising, unaware of there being anything out of the ordinary in waking John as he had. A slow heat spread across John's lap, his eyes widening in response to this unexpected occurrence. _Sherlock hadn't even touched him! Had he…had he…? _Dreading what awaited him, he glanced down with a sigh of relief; it was only a breakfast tray. There was still the matter that he hadn't noticed Sherlock placing it down but he could ponder that later.

Sherlock had made him breakfast? _Sherlock_ had made him breakfast? It was doing its best to look like breakfast if the plate held an entirely different offering. _Probably best to inspect it._ Bacon, it looked like bacon, smelt like bacon…

"Breakfast; too early for dinner." The detective explained with a simple shrug of his shoulders. His moves appeared more disjointed now, his uncertainty in this situation the only uncharacteristic behaviour John had witnessed.

"Sherlock, is this edible?" His voice louder than before until it came to his next question, "It's not sliced foot or something?" Posing this question to anyone else would make one seem more than a little odd, however with Sherlock enquiries like these had become commonplace. He had forgone the question when taking food from the fridge. He discovered later that he had spread congealed rat blood on his morning toast.

"Well you know, I thought I'd try a new recipe." He may not notice sarcasm in others but he certainly managed to use it at an acceptable level. He stood expectantly, his eyes never leaving John's. His glare had an unnerving quality, forcing his friend's eyes to look anywhere other than back up at him, "Do I need to cut it up for you or do you think you can manage that on your own."

This was stereotypical Sherlock once more, much improved from the night before. With a deep inhale and exhale John sliced a small square off, cautiously placing it on his tongue. Two things happened at this moment. 1 – Sherlock pulled away, his imposing stance no longer shadowing over John. 2 – The latter instantly regretted allowing the 'food' past his lips. But what didn't kill him would only make him stronger. Right?


	3. Chapter 3

**Obviously I need to apologise again for how atrocious I am at updating this, I struggle to accept when a chapter isn't going to get any better. If anyone is still reading this, I hope you enjoy this new chapter and I promise that it'll be updated at some point, just bear with me.**

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><p>Codes have been used for many hundreds of years as a means of conversation allowing only the intended recipient to understand the text's full meaning. Sherlock Holmes had always been fond of codes having employed the use of them from near the moment he was able to speak. It is customary for there to be a minimum of two individuals with the knowledge or cypher required to unlock its true contents. For many years Sherlock had followed this convention sharing these codes with his brother, colleagues, acquaintances but he had since thought better of it, the number of people he could trust dwindling. Yes, Sherlock Holmes still made use of code, but now to hide things from the world and, at times, himself.<p>

His current code was through the medium of music, each note on the stave a letter or word though he altered each note's meaning for each piece he wrote so as to not remember the previous one's meaning. Had he stopped to think about this he would see it as an obvious defence mechanism but he refused to, instead seeing this as evidence that you can learn more about a person not by what they say but why what they do.

"Sherlock?" John stood behind him now, as the question forced its way out of his mouth in a croak, keeping a sensible distance after that morning's awakening. When he failed to get a response he cleared his throat, allowing his next inquiry to come out much more naturally, "How are you?" It was always a hit or miss question with this man; sometimes allowing him to go into hour long rants about how touchy Mycroft had been when he'd asked for access to government records, other times he would reply with a simple 'fine' before continuing with whatever task had previously occupied him. However Sherlock chose to respond it was always evasive and never actually answered the question at hand.

"Look John, I understand." Sherlock drawled, moving towards the window as he added more notations to the script before him, the markings hurried so as to finish them all before the thoughts were pushed from his mind by whatever inconsequential thing John would now distract him with, "My food failed to agree with your digestive tract, please don't apologise again for throwing up over my bedding." Remember somewhere in the back of his mind that his sentence wouldn't be seen as helpful, in any manner, to the doctor he added, "It gives me the perfect opportunity to try my new chemical stain remover." Partially to make the man behind him feel better but also in the hopes that this would now bring the conversation to an end.

This stain remover was ironically the cause for the multiple stains now adorning the kitchen walls, however Mrs Hudson had refused her tenant the 'privilege' of using said stain remover to rectify this. Now, due to the bed sheets being his own property, she had no objections to make.

This was shown by her nod of agreement and a sudden interest in the conversation, "That'll be nice, I know how eager you've been to put that to use." She pottered through the room, weaving through the various piles of scattered police and medical files, placing a plate of food before the taller of the two men, "Time to eat something, Sherlock. It's your favourite." This was the normal routine whenever he was composing; John would attempt to engage him in a conversation that it was clear he would have no interest in at the present time and, when that failed, Mrs Hudson would offer up what she believed to be his favourite dish, a full English breakfast (the same meal that Sherlock had attempted to emulate for John that morning.) It was what she had served him when he had first enquired about the flat and his reaction of a garbled 'thank you' as he chewed hesitantly was all she had to go on as to what foods he favoured.

It had been two year before he had met John Watson that Sherlock had arrived on Mrs Hudson's doorstep. He had been thin, more devilishly thin than he was today and unnervingly flighty, jumping at any noise or movement as if overstimulated. She knew now that this was when Mycroft had started his detox and, though she wouldn't admit it, she had played a significant role in him abandoning the drugs. His visits had become a regular occurrence and, within three months, it seemed he had grown to trust her and now spoke with more vigour, a pinkish tint now warm in his skin thanks to the months of well cooked meals and the absence of drugs.

They met every Tuesday and Friday, sometimes in the early hours of the morning when Sherlock managed to let himself in and sit motionless at the kitchen table, transfixed by the delicate pattern of the rolls of wallpaper she had beside it, waiting to be used for something though she still wasn't sure what. It was always the wallpaper he stared at, its brown flourishes oddly calming to him. She never questioned his arrival, instead pouring him a drink while making him another fry up. After half an hour or so his focus would return to the room he was in and the woman he shared it with. They would talk for an hour or two, mostly about nothing in particular but, without warning, Sherlock would suddenly switch to a candid topic and begin revealing things about himself, never his childhood though and so she had never truly learnt his favourite dish but the food she presented to him now and the paper she had adorned his walls with helped to show that she still cared. Sherlock needed that; someone to care.

Waiting a minute or two for some kind of response, Mrs Hudson sighed to no one in particular and retreated down the stairs, mumbling about the hip that she often reminded people that she had. She knew that somewhere deep down his frosty exterior was helping him but she was well aware of how much it harmed him too. When she had first met him he had appeared helpless, like a child, and she frequently had to remind herself that this was no longer the case but she still couldn't help but pander to him.

Sensing that attempting to get anymore from his flatmate was futile Dr Watson turned, the sigh escaping his mouth similar to the one his landlady had made just moments before, and tramped down the stairs, his steps heavier than were necessary. Now downstairs, the two looked at each other a silent "Look after him." Passing through John's eyes though he knew it wasn't required; she would look after him anyway. Pausing for a minute or so, questioning whether it was wise for him to leave, John weighed up his options before finally stepping out into the cold December air, his coat just a little too thin to protect him from the chill. As he walked, he was well aware of the eyes searing into his back as he rounded the corner but he would not look up, he would not allow his concern for his friend to show.

It was never easy to communicate with Sherlock and at times like this it was nigh on impossible to get through to him. He would regress into the childlike state he had had upon first meeting Mrs Hudson though this was different, he now showed a lack of trust towards anyone. Sat in the flat with him for prolonged periods of time would only spark more worry as he stood by the window, never talking, never eating, never sleeping. But these things passed in phases. That morning the man had been in an over-productive stage, arguably the most bearable of times when he was grief stricken. John's negative reaction to his food would soon change that, cause him to retreat into his shell once more. The doctor had seen these symptoms in patients many times before and the cause was always low self-esteem, but knowing Sherlock as he did it seemed more than unlikely that this could be his problem. The man was a mystery and looking after Sherlock was a fulltime job and not one he would give up soon.

"You took your time." The older Holmes brother perched on the edge of a park bench as John made his way towards him. Wrapped up in his own thoughts he had not realised that he had reached his end destination until Mycroft's voice reached him, halting him in his tracks. Glancing over at the man who had much the same choice in coats as his brother, John sat himself beside the already seated man who seemed more than out of place on a park bench.

Ignoring what was clearly meant to be a flippant remark; John readjusted himself against the new cold he was experiencing now stationary upon the metal seat, his mind momentarily believing his psychosomatic limp had returned and that he must compensate for the stiffness of his leg by the way he sat. He soon caught himself, resuming the seating position assumed by the majority of the World's healthy individuals before staring into their near deserted surrounding. They sat like this for an indistinguishable amount of time, the doctor regretting, now more than before, not wearing a thicker jacket - he had been under the impression that Mycroft would have positioned himself in a warehouse somewhere, the four walls being ample protection against the cold.

Finally he posed the question, "What do you want Mycroft?" The cold had caused his mood to dampen somewhat and left him less than jovial. It was all he could do not to snap though he knew he had no reason to; it was no fault of Mycroft's that had brought them to this meeting. Sighing, he rubbed his hands together in an attempt to warm himself as he held out for an answer.

Again they sat in silence, Mycroft seemingly ignoring his question, instead being more interested on the falling snowflakes fluttering from sky only to attach to his suit. He stood, flicking a few to the floor and once again found himself watching as they were replaced by newly forming flakes. Taking a firm hold of his umbrella, he opened it with a flourish and, from then on, used it as a shield against the oncoming barrage of British weather.

"There are few things we can still depend on, Mr Watson." He uttered, tilting his head to the side as though deep in thought, his tone somehow managing to be superior even at a time when he was at his most vulnerable, "One being how very invaluable keeping one's umbrella with them is." He nodded rather sharply towards the object above his head though he still failed to focus on the man before him, "The other that, for some unknown reason, my brother seems to trust you more than he has trusted anyone to this day. Why is this?"

This was a subject matter that had not been expect and, as John rose to be somewhat on the same level as the other man, he puzzled over any possible answer, "I don't know...he's Sherlock." It was not odd for either himself or Mrs Hudson to use this as an explanation for his actions though it was mutually understood that even the slightest view into his psyche would be appreciated.

"Yes, a very apt deduction, I now understand why my brother is so fond of you." Sarcasm rich in his voice, Mycroft once again focused his attention upwards, struggling to keep eye contact with the shorter gentleman, "Stay with him. He shuts off completely if I show concern." His voice had now changed, the concern he felt for his brother being voiced only to John, "You're the closest he's gotten to a relationship; don't hurt him."

With that he left, his sudden movement disturbing the snow accumulated on his treasured umbrella. Mycroft had been wrong, there were two more things John found he was able to depend on; a- wherever Mycroft went, that umbrella was in tow and, b- the Holmes brothers were nothing if not dramatic.

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><p><strong>This chapter's a little longer than the others which maybe makes up slightly for my tardiness in updating it. No, you say, it doesn't? Then I apologise profusely again, I'm just bad at this updating lark.<strong>

**Charlotte **

**x**


	4. Chapter 4

**Apologies for the ridiculously late updating and the ridiculously short chapter but I'm working on it and should hopefully have a new chapter up within a week *fingers crossed***

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><p>Despite the varying weather it so often faced, it seemed that London would never be ready for the force of winter. Three years previously, the entirety of the Underground had been halted, snow having breached the external barriers and melted upon the tracks. The year before this had seen a three day interruption in air travel both in and out of the capital. And this year, much to the annoyance of one John Hamish Watson, it appeared that taxis were the transport to meet their downfall. Forty-seven minutes after beginning his wait on the usually thriving street, he finally conceded defeat, moving a few feet up the road to a near empty bus stop; the only people in the area, himself and a woman in nothing more than a skimpy evening dress, quite possibly making the walk of shame, or whatever the bus version of that was. Her shivers were clearly warranted, as the gently drifting snow rested upon her skin, equally as pale as the ice that chilled her.<p>

It is an unwritten law with British public transport that passengers do not talk to each other unless their conversation should consist of either a) the weather, b) the delay in that form of transport, or c) directions to your destination. The ex-army doctor found himself able to include all three of these in what would be considered an appropriate conversation.

"I was planning to get a taxi, but none have come by," acceptable topic b, "it must be something to do with this weather," acceptable topic a, and rounding it off with, "I don't suppose you know how I could get to Baker Street?" a perfect example of acceptable topic c. Smug as he was, the woman had now turned her attention to him and so he would save his victory dance, at this astounding display of London social skills, until later.

Surprisingly enough, it seemed like his dance may have been appreciated, her smirk matching his, "You're really glad you got all that in, aren't you?" That smirk had become audible as she spoke, the sound giving away her age, probably slightly younger than him, older than her appearance suggested.

"I had to get your attention somehow, without being that creepy man who seems to haunt public transport." She tilted her head and scrunched her face, a clear sign that he was losing her and so he hurried out his next words, stumbling over them, "I just wanted to know whether you wanted my coat." He shrugged softly in an attempt to emphasise the jacket on his shoulders.

"And I thought chivalry was dead." Her smirk returned and she nodded for him to place it over her shoulders.

The fabric swamped her delicate form, falling to way beneath her knees, showing how impossibly short she was, even in comparison to the doctor. While it was bittersweet, her heat causing his chill, something in him found it worthwhile.

"So," she snapped him out of his shivering, "Now that we've deviated from social conventions, would it be too much for me to ask for your number?" The pause was palpable, "Or let me give you mine?"

The cold must have been getting to him because, to him, it sounded like she'd just asked for his number. The only proof he had of this, upon arriving at his front door, was his lack of coat and the feminine scrawl of _Mary – 07855751690 x_

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><p><strong>So let me know what you think; I'm trying reintroduce myself to this whole writing lark and it's taking some time...but I am trying! I promise!<strong>

**Charlotte x**


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay, I know I said that I'd update this within a week...but we all know how bad I am at updating...and at least it's not as long a break as last time...Just a short one again; I'm struggling with scene transitions, but I'll have finished school soon which will give me time to focus on this.**

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><p>"Does that mean you'll be leaving me now then?" His voice monotone, Sherlock sat tuning his violin, not needing to look up to know of his friend's return home.<p>

Though it made sense for the man to be in the living room of his own flat, the voice still gave John a start, causing an exclamation of, "Jesus!" to echo through the dust filled room.

"Good guess, but no." Setting down his violin, he unfurled his lengthy limbs and stood, the slight curve of his lips a clear indication of quite how proud he was at his attempt at humour, "You moved in with me so quickly that I can't see you staying away from this Mary for more than a week." When his flatmate continued to look perplexed, he added, with a sigh, "Your hand; clearly a woman's number, the handwriting and the name more than giving that away. The kiss, some kind of personal attachment, you wouldn't end a business number with that. So it's personal. Not your sister, I doubt she's taken on another name, no other family members it could be – you're either too estranged from them or you already know their number. Now you don't have female friends, no, Molly and your ex's don't count, so someone new. Someone new, who added a kiss? Budding romance."

His face reddened, John slumped into his usual chair, having hoped that they would not have to discuss this. What was he thinking? His friend was the most observant man London had to offer, obnoxiously so.

"Shut up." He knew it was a weak rebuttal, but embarrassment overruled his brain and prevented any logical responses from being vocalised. Instead, he fidgeted with his hands, left index finger tracing the delicate penmanship of Mary's number. The woman's bus had arrived shortly after she had recapped her pen and she'd left without John's name, though his jacket still warmed her. She hadn't so much as glanced back at him as the vehicle pulled away from the stop. But he'd watched her.

He didn't know why he found her so intriguing; she was so different to any woman he'd pursued before. _Maybe that's it John, maybe you've been after the wrong thing all your life._

It was Sherlock's movement that awoke him from his thoughts; the tall man sloping languidly towards the kitchen as the microwave beeped. _Surely he wasn't making food for himself already? _The smell seeping in unnatural patterns through the air confirmed his suspicions; it was not food. At least an experiment would keep him busy.

"Sherlock," Pulling himself to his feet, making use of the chair's arms as leverage, the doctor made his way to the dining table. Nose scrunched in a vain attempt to prevent the stench from filling it, his voice came out nasal, dampening the sincerity somewhat, "You know I'm not leaving, right?" With his roommate being in his current state of instability, he felt the need to explain this fact. He was first and foremost Sherlock's friend and, at current, that was more important than the woman he had met that day, "Besides, I don't think this Mary's really my type."

A sharp nod his only response, the detective's attention remained on the jar he held. In truth, since Irene Adler's death, his observations today had been one of Sherlock's more talkative moments and any conversation was better than nothing. Deciding not to push it further, John leant back against the countertop, his focus, like Sherlock's, on the jar of goo. He considered questioning its contents, but thought better of it; his stomach still slightly queasy.

"Well…" pulling his gaze up, he smiled uneasily, "if you need me, I'll be in the bathroom." His left hand gestured uncertainly in the general direction of the room, the realisation of how that sounded hitting him.

"I don't know quite how co-dependant you're assuming I am, but I believe I am more than capable of surviving on my own while you visit the little boys room."

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><p><strong>So, if you still feel some love towards me, maybe let me know that I'm not a complete failure at life and that some of this is maybe sort of alright? No? Okay then...<strong>

**Charlotte**

**x**


	6. Chapter 6

Eleven days. John had counted. Eleven days since Christmas. Eleven days since Sherlock's last real meal. He had known the man to go without food before and knew the main reason behind it. A craving. He had originally experienced this six months earlier, in the first few days after they had met. While he had thought it odd that the man hadn't been seen to eat anything for nearly a week after their initial meeting, he assumed he just ate at unconventional times. It was only later, upon asking Mrs Hudson, that he discovered this was a regular occurrence for the detective.

Since then, he had worked alongside those closest to Sherlock, inundating him with cases, providing him with body parts to study and doing whatever necessary to keep his focus elsewhere. While this had worked to this point, it now seemed futile, the man now refusing to take any cases less than a perfect ten and John now found himself wishing for a triple murder, or something equally 'thrilling.' Too tired himself to think of the moral implications of waiting with bated breath for someone to have an appendage or two removed, John now had Lestrade on speed dial, calling him near daily.

As his thumb hit the call button for the third time that week, his body arched into the phone, shielding his activities from the man in the next room, as if it would make a difference. For ten long seconds, the sound of ringing reverberated in his ears, his heart fluttering alongside each bell ring.

"Watson." He hadn't expected such a sudden response, when finally the other man's phone was plucked from its cradle, and he promptly lost his footing, a stumble landing him in the, thankfully empty, bathtub.

"Jesus…" The hand not clutching his phone pulled him as best it could from the odd position in which he found himself, until he perched atop the tub's ledge. Panting slightly with the effort, he attempted to regulate his breathing as he mentally cursed the bruise that would surely develop up his side, "Tell me you've got something."

"Oh for fu…" the crackle of the bad line censored the inspector, but John still caught the gist of his outburst, "I told you I'd bloody call you when I had something. What do you want me to do, start committing murders myself?"

Silence. It wasn't that he was actually considering it…or was he? No;, the shorter man was simply puzzling over how long this call could be. Deciding it had been perhaps a little too long for him to still get away with the 'I'm just popping to the loo' excuse that he had once again given Sherlock, he pulled the flush chain of the toilet, the water swirling away.

"I'm being serious, John," Disgust rang strong in his tone, the sound having alerted him to John's whereabouts, "You've got to stop calling me from the bathroom." With that, he hung up, ignoring floundering cries of, "I'm just sitting in here!" from the sweater-clad man.

Setting the phone on his desk, the doughnut that had been in his hand now being thrown haphazardly alongside it, Lestrade took a second to compose himself before allowing a sigh to escape his lips, "Put me right off my doughnut."

It was decided. If Lestrade wouldn't help him, John Watson would create the crimes himself.

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><p><strong>I know it's ridiculously short again but...I think I may have finally worked out where it's going from here so the next chapters should actually be decent! Yay!<strong>

**Charlotte**

**x**


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay, okay, I know how awful I am, but I finally got around to updating again and (hopefully) should be updating more regularly...that once every six months. I could rattle of excuses but I shan't and instead will hope that you'll forgive me enough to at least try getting into this.**

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><p>In a time before the internet, public libraries were the hub of all knowledge, their resources ranging from the commonplace to the truly unexpected. It was the truly unexpected that John Watson now hoped for; aware that he could most probably find it in Sherlock's collection but preferring not to have the conversation that would surely follow. Surprisingly enough, he was eager avoid questions of why he was suddenly so interested in unsolved crimes; he figured the not entirely untrue response of 'I'm planning to become somewhat of a criminal mastermind' would be too risky. And so he found himself muttering, to no one in particular, as he searched the small 'true crime' section of local library, picking up each book as he went, hoping beyond hope that one of the well-thumbed titles might give him the inspiration required.<p>

The Executioner's Song…he wasn't looking to kill anyone, but the prospect of somehow creating a perfect ten without a little bloodshed was more than daunting. Hell, the prospect of creating a perfect ten _with_ a little bloodshed was more than daunting.

Fatal Vision_..._could you really kill someone with an image? _No, that'd be stupid. _Maybe through an image?

Pressing finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the swirled font of the next title, he found in his hands The Sex Killers. "No!" He hadn't meant for it to be quite so loud, or for the vowel to have continued for so long, but as his eyes widened and he attempted to shove it back upon the shelf, he knew he had drawn attention to himself. His fingers scrambled, suddenly all thumbs as he tried in vain to part the wall of books before him. Instead, his fingers slid over spines and pages, only causing him to fumble more. When finally he managed to create a gap large enough to slide the book into, he let go of the breath he wasn't aware he was holding, leaning against the shelf in an attempt to rid himself of the memory of what had just happened.

Glancing up, he caught the shaking shoulders of a, quietly giggling, young librarian. Aside her sat a second librarian, glasses low on her nose, though she still squinted to read the small text of her book. She glared over at the doctor before closing the copy of Pride and Prejudice in her hand and using it to clip the woman around the back of the head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'didn't raise no daughter of mine to laugh at no dumb man.'

Realising he'd probably been standing there for more than an acceptable timeframe, John selected four of the larger books, stacking them haphazardly between his arms and chin, making his way to the nearest available table. As he moved from his standing place however, the re-shelved book slipped, his hip having been the only thing keeping it propped up, crashing loudly to the floor. The sound reverberated through his ears, causing him to pause in place, pulling yet more attention. Making an about turn, in a plan to retrieve the book from the floor, he found himself toe to toe with the same giggling librarian, who now held the tome in her hand.

"The Sex Killers?" She questioned, rather more loudly than was necessary, her eyebrow raising slightly in amusement as she stifled another bout of giggles, "Good read?" Pressing her lips together, her face was back to one of seriousness; the occasional twitch at the edge of her mouth the only hint at just how amusing she found this.

Blushing furiously, John scratched the back of his neck, cringing internally, "Wouldn't know; haven't read it." He coughed in an unconscious move to cover his face from further scrutiny.

"You should." Walking past him, she added it to the pile of books he'd just put down, throwing a quick, "Interesting title." Over her shoulder as she returned to her desk.

Willing his burning cheeks to calm, he pulled out the seat behind his books, clearing his throat and purposefully moving The Sex Killersto the bottom of the pile. Taking the first, and largest, of his selected books, he sighed, wondering when he became the kind of person to plan a murder while a group of toddlers had story-time in the corner.

As he turned the first page, his phone beeped. _Sherlock, it was always Sherlock._ He ignored it at first, until the continual beeping of a wave of texts earned him a harsh "Shhh." from the elderly librarian as she, for the second time in the minutes he had been there, wielded her book in a way that was more menacing than her stature and age suggested she could be. Watson raised a hand in apology, attempting to silence the phone.

"Blasted thing." It continued its beeping, texts flashing onto the screen faster than he could close them, "Yes, I get it." He was uncertain as to whether this last statement was directed at the phone or the librarian, but it seemed to suit both well enough.

Stabbing at the few available buttons, a pause in Sherlock's texts finally allowed him a window in which to calm momentarily and find the correct button. It seemed their where only five messages in total, but the quick succession in which he had received them, and the silence of the room around him, had caused him to believe there had been twice that, if not more.

_Get the door, John._

_SH._

_There's a woman here, John._

_SH._

_She has your coat._

_SH._

_Mrs Hudson let her in._

_SH._

_Deal with this._

_SH._

Scooping the stack of books back into his arms, he checked them out, silently wishing the elderly librarian would move faster. Books and card returned to him, he jogged from the building, tripping on a folded pushchair in his haste.

* * *

><p><strong>As always, let me know what you think. This followed series two canon for the most part, but the airing of series three has most definitely made it non-canon (what with Mary already being introduced and all) but I hope you like it.<strong>

**Charlotte**

**x**


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